Christmas Carols
by KoteSkirata
Summary: Steve Rogers struggles with his new reality at Christmas time. One-shot.


**This is a short story about our favorite soldier. I had this idea when I turned on the radio and looked out the window at the falling snow. I felt like this story gave me something I've been looking for, for a couple of months now - a window into his mind. I hope you like what I found.**

**I do not own Steve Rogers.**

**Enjoy!**

**K.S.**

He was walking alone, with his head down, listening to the sounds of the city. There was so much more noise than he was used to – it was overwhelming, slamming into his thoughts and breaking them apart, over and over, like ocean waves. And he'd had more than enough of the ocean. He shook his head and kept on walking, moving faster now as the snow spiraled down.

He tried not to look around him, because everything was different than he thought it should have been. It was like a never-ending game of spot the difference.

It was making him feel crazy.

And as if that wasn't more than enough to make him wish he hadn't gone for a walk today, it was also December. He hadn't even realized what that meant until it was too late, and now he couldn't escape them, because they were _everywhere._

Christmas carols.

Even if he'd thought about it, he wouldn't have expected it to be a problem. But he hadn't thought about it – and it was a problem. The music followed him from block to block, in passing cars, in groups of carolers, in storefront speakers. And the worst part was that he didn't recognize any of it.

Not a single song. He didn't know any of the Christmas carols that echoed and rebounded in the New York City streets. The music that made everyone else smile and wave, or drop coins in one of the donation buckets, or thank the carolers.

He didn't want to thank the carolers. How could he thank them for making him feel more alone than ever?

But he did put money in one of the red kettles. Those he recognized. The Salvation Army had been active in his war. In . . . World War Two.

In the 1940s.

In the past.

In the world that wasn't – not anymore.

He shook his head again, hard. When he looked up, there was a bright-faced young woman standing in front of him, beaming. He blinked, seeing the other carolers standing behind her.

_Oh, great . . ._

"Any requests, sir?" the girl asked, and even her voice was bright and cheerful and made him want to run and hide. Or punch something. He couldn't decide.

He opened his mouth to say no, and out came the words, "I'll be home for Christmas. Please."

_Why did I say that? I don't want to hear that._

"Of course!" The young woman turned back to her fellow carolers, snowflakes frosting her dark hair. The singers spoke in hushed tones for a moment, and then began.

"I am dreaming tonight of a place that I love, even more than I usually do . . ."

He looked down. The sidewalk was still the same, no matter how many years went by. All sidewalks were the same, really – grungy and cracked and wet from the melting snow.

He was dreaming. He always was. He dreamed of the past every night. He dreamed of _home._

"I'll be home for Christmas . . ."

Or maybe this was the dream. Maybe he was still underwater, slowly freezing and waiting for rescue as his mind conjured up an elaborate fantasy to entertain him.

"If only in my dreams . . ."

No. How could anyone dream up Tony Stark? That kind of behavior was behind anyone's mental capacity.

And then there was Natasha. He tried, he really did, but he still couldn't quite understand the concept of an expert assassin who was a _lady._ A real lady, not just a dame. Because Natasha was definitely a lady. He knew that the first time she put Barton in his place without even trying.

Barton. He definitely wasn't dreaming Barton. Even though it sort of made sense for him to imagine a face for the dangers that lurked in the shadows . . . he was pretty sure he wouldn't have imagined Barton. He was too . . . unique. For lack of a better term.

And speaking of unique, there was no way in any world he was imagining Thor. He only believed in one God. He knew for sure that he wouldn't dream up a demigod. Especially one with such a detailed past.

Considering detailed pasts – he couldn't have imagined Dr. Banner. Not in a million years of frozen stasis. How could anyone imagine the Hulk? Or pair him with such a mild-mannered, permanently disheveled doctor?

"I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams."

Home. What was home?

The young woman smiled at him happily, and asked, "Did you like it?"

"Yes," he said. "Thank you." He handed her a twenty dollar bill, the first thing he could dig out of his pocket, and said, "Keep the change."

Steve Rogers put his hands in his pockets and walked away through the snow, melting into a crowd of people who lived in a time that was not his.

The dark-haired caroler watched him go. _Strange, _she thought. _I don't think he really liked it all that much._

_ And haven't I seen him before somewhere?_


End file.
